Regulus wondered, not for the first time, if the Dark Lord knew how closely to Spartan ideologies he floated.
It chafed cousin Bella that their Lord saw no one soldier above another in his contingent. Each individual came together to form his cohesive whole, moving forward to train themselves, body and mind, towards the dawn of their power. Their Lord's power. Her resentment at each rebuff of affection towards their master flooded the connection of the Dark Marks, until the Dark Lord only allowed the power to channel to himself instead of a shared pool to pull from.
He blamed his moment of distraction, of reflection, on his view, facing the bookcase devoted to Grecian literature. The moment passed when a second warm hand caressed his back, his black shirt whisked out of the back of his belted trousers. Unblemished skin, smooth as silk, could feel each callous and crease of the hands roaming the svelte muscles beneath.
"Rabastan," he said, his words swimming through the air heady with male musk.
The shorter man, broader in hips and shoulders and chest, slipped the hands exploring the knots of his lumbar forward to find purchase on Regulus's slightly protruding hip-bones. Intervals of pressure passed from Rabastan's fingertips to the sensitive skin around Regulus's abdomen and the dip - that he was very proud of - between the muscles and his bones to form a V.
When the pattern repeated itself for the third time, he realized Rabastan was using Morse instead of spinning Regulus to face him.
Do not go. Do not go.
One hand moved from the bookcase, where it was tracing the spine of a Greek grimoire, to rest against the solid arm trapping him against a broad chest. Regulus angled his face to the mirrored plate displayed on the shelves. He would turn to sign to Rabastan, but with the possessive hold he couldn't move enough.
"I've helmed dozens of raids."
This one is different.
"Bast, if they weren't different, they wouldn't keep the attention of the other imbeciles among us. Besides, I - ahhh!"
Rabastan sunk his teeth into Regulus's shoulder, low enough the collar of his shirt wouldn't display it, effectively silencing his younger lover. He pushed him into the bookcase again, though he'd already taken him out of needy desperation on the sofa only yards away.
Twisting in Rabastan's grip, Regulus turned to face him and angled his face to allow the anxiety rush through his veins, fueling kisses violent enough to bruise and almost crack teeth. He didn't know how long they were there, him pressed against shelves of mythology and philosophy mixed between books on war.
Voice hoarse from disuse, and lips bleeding, courtesy of the taller man's bite, Rabastan pleaded, "Stay away from Bella."
Each word speared Regulus's resolve until a small puncture of emotion leaked through. Instead of speaking, he poured everything he could into another heated kiss, his last of the night, far gentler than before.
originally posted as Chapter 59 in the Choose Dare ficlet/drabble series and posted on tumblr 7/22/2016
I am going to come clean and state the beginning, the Spartan influences, are purely in the basis of this ficlet. I do not think that Voldemort really paralleled that ideology very closely but it was for the implications of the closeness of the soldiers. I am not an expert so any mistakes are purely my own. Also, I was inspired by a Jegulus ficlet on tumblr by angry-space-ravenclaw to incorporate deafness in the Potterverse, though many of these afflictions I think would be corrected by magic, we still have Harry wearing glasses. As always, let me know your thoughts.